Free The Genesis Plague (2010) by Michael Byrnes Page B

wall. For now, he refrained from telling him about the ID badge they’d found - a calculated, risky move.
    Crawford took fifteen seconds to mull the facts. Then he said, ‘All right, Yaeger. I get it. So what do you say we go ahead and plunge this toilet?’

13
    Thirty kilometres south of the cave, the Blackhawk glided over a lush plain framed by the Goyzha, Azmir, Glazarda and Piramagrun mountains. Hazo peered out the fuselage window to Kurdistan’s economic hub, As Sulaymaniyah. The city was a dense wheel of three- and four-storey buildings, spoked with roadways. He mused how from the air, he could see satellite dishes on practically every rooftop. Kurds loved their television, he thought.
    Instead of heading for the international airport a few kilometres to the west, the pilot eased to a hover along Highway 4 and set the chopper down in a vacant parking lot. At the far end of the lot, Hazo spotted the Humvee escort the copilot had arranged while en route. Two severe-looking US marines in desert fatigues and mirrored sunglasses stood in wait, each clutching an M-16.
    The pilot killed the turbine and the blades wound down.
    The copilot assisted Hazo out from the chopper. As he escorted him to the Humvee, he asked, ‘How long will you be in Suly?’
    ‘Maybe forty minutes,’ Hazo yelled.
    ‘We’ll wait here.’ A thumbs-up and the copilot trotted back to the Blackhawk.
    Hazo jumped into the Humvee with his two chaperones and provided them with the name of a restaurant located in the city centre, off Sulaymaniyah Circle. Hazo was not surprised that the marines knew its precise location. The restaurant was a hotspot for tourists and US military, thanks in part to its central location and fine Middle Eastern cuisine, but more so for its immaculate bathrooms and chic Arabian decor, which appealed to finicky Americans and Europeans. The marines got chummy when Hazo told them that the jovial proprietor and restaurant’s namesake, Karsaz, was his cousin.
    The Humvee zoomed through the busy streets, its massive tyres humming along the potholed pavement. The marines gave Hazo some moist towelettes so he could scrub his grungy face and hands, and blot the blood spatter off his sleeve. He did his best to pat the sand and dirt from his pants.
    Hazo was delivered to the restaurant’s doorstep in less than ten minutes. He hopped out and made his way into the foyer, where he was immediately overtaken by the heavenly redolence of cumin, mint, frankincense and rich tobacco. From behind a podium, a pretty hostess in a shiny taffeta dress glanced out the door to the idling Humvee then gave his attire a disapproving once-over. She offered a cautious greeting.
    Hazo told her he’d come to speak with his cousin. She perked up and rounded the podium. Threading her arm through his, she proceeded to take him through a pointed archway leading off the main dining room and into the sumptuous hookah lounge.
    Arabian-style arches set atop honey marble columns separated a dozen cosy seating areas adorned with Persian rugs, silk ceiling swags, and ornate Moroccan lamps set to a warm glow. Patrons lounged on plush floor cushions, puffing dreamily from hookah pipes. This was their safe zone, he thought - the womb where war and economic chaos had no place. Towards the rear of the lounge, they found Karsaz among a group of young Americans in business suits, talking in his animated, mayoral style.
    The hostess led him to the service bar at the room’s centre. ‘Just a moment. I will tell him you are here.’
    She walked over to Karsaz and waited patiently with hands folded behind her back until the rotund, moustached owner addressed her. She pointed in Hazo’s direction. When Karsaz made eye contact with Hazo, his face brightened. After telling the waitress to bring his guests a complimentary dessert, he hurried over to Hazo with hands spread wide.
    ‘ Choni !’ Karsaz greeted him with delight. He came up and wrapped his thick arms around Hazo,